THE OLD BLOT

“What now?” exclaimed Ursula, still standing where Mopius had left her, by the great unused fireplace. “I cannot even trust Noks, who chatters. Poor father knows nothing about business. I am quite alone.”

Even as she spoke there flashed across her mind a memory of her husband’s words: “Not Gerard. Never Gerard. If ever you want a counsellor, turn to Theodore Helmont.”

Hardly knowing what she did—certainly not knowing why she did it—she sat down and wrote a telegram, then and there, to this cousin she barely knew.

“Can you come here for two days? I greatly desire it.”

As soon as the boy had ridden away she wished she had worded her message quite differently. An hour later she wished she had not sent it at all.

“Mamma,” she said at luncheon, speaking very loudly and distinctly, as people had to do nowadays with the old lady, “I have asked Theodore van Helmont to come and stay here for a day or two.”

“Whom?” asked the Baroness.

“Theodore van Helmont.”

“The house is yours, Ursula, now, to do what you like with, but”—the Dowager began to cry—“you might have asked somebody with another name.”

“It is on business,” replied Ursula, curtly.

“Business again,” said the old lady, in an aggrieved tone; “since my poor Theodore died one would think we kept a shop. Oh, ask him, by all means. He is the plebeian young man. I have nothing to say. It is the invasion of the—the—what, Louisa?”

“I suppose you mean the Goths and Vandals,” replied Louisa, very busy with her meal, which she always treated seriously. “Well, the Goths and Vandals were a strong new element; they were just what an effete society wanted. The great misfortune of our modern civilization is that all the Goths and Vandals have been used up.”

“Invasion of the Goths and Vandals,” repeated the Dowager. “But I don’t mind. All I ask is to be allowed to finish my ‘Memoir.’ Then I shall go and sleep with Theodore and the children. You won’t put me in the big vault, will you, Ursula? Do the graves belong to Ursula, too?”

“No, no,” said Ursula, hastily.

“Who did you say was coming to stay here?”

“Theodore van Helmont, mamma, from Bois-le-Duc.”

“Theodore,” repeated the Dowager, reflectively. “That was Henry’s son. I’m glad he’s coming. He will be able to tell me in what year his father made that ridiculous marriage—the first mÉsalliance in the Helmont family.”

“I could have told you that,” declared Louisa, brightly. “’54 or ’55.”

“I want to be exact,” replied the Dowager, in her uncertain drawl. “I’ve got it somewhere among my documents, but I couldn’t find it again.”

Two days passed without any answer. Ursula’s heart burned within her: at the thought of this neglect she turned suddenly hot and cold. In her quietly imperious necessity she had never doubted but that her summons would be obeyed.

Several times during the twenty-four hours the old Baroness would ask when the guest was expected.

“We are in mourning, Ursula,” she said. “I hope you will not forget that we are in mourning. I think you went out of it too soon for your father-in-law. But perhaps your customs are different.” (This was a standing, oft-repeated grievance.) “However, it is barely nine months since your husband died.”

“It is six,” replied Ursula; “I shall not forget.”

“The young man does not seem too anxious, certainly,” interposed Aunt Louisa, over her crochet. “You ask him, and he doesn’t reply. I prefer the days of chivalry.”

“But you don’t remember the age of chivalry, Aunt Louisa,” said Ursula, whose patience was distinctly overwrought. She objected to hearing her own innermost thought thus clearly stated by the Freule.

“No; I was born fifty-seven years ago; I am in no way ashamed of it,” replied Aunt Louisa, coolly. “But what has that to do with the subject? You must be very unimaginative, Ursula, or have read very little. If you weren’t so careless about your books, and didn’t let them get dog-eared (as you do), I should lend you Madame de Roncevalles’ book on ‘The Decline of European Manners.’ It is wonderfully interesting. It proves from the fossil remains that the cave-dwellers, at their cannibal banquets, always ate the women first.”

“Louisa, it is time I had my piquet,” objected the Dowager, who never forgot her game. She had taken the old Baron’s place as Louisa’s partner, and somehow considered the continuation of this time-honored institution as an almost religious tribute to her lord.

Under the reproachful wonder of her two companions, Ursula began to remember with increasing clearness that her impression of Theodore van Helmont had been decidedly unfavorable. She had not been able to understand her husband’s admiration; but then, Otto and she so seldom sympathized. She remembered a grave young man, an awkward man, one of those irritating people who were always judging themselves, and had a logical reason for everything they did. There are people who constantly seem to be standing aside to look themselves down, superciliously, from head to foot. She wished more than ever that she had not sent her telegram. But, unfortunately for most of us, it is easy to say “Come,” and impossible to say “Don’t.”

The only time she had met this cousin was on the occasion of those Christmas festivities, when the house was full of guests. It was a time on which she could not bear to dwell. For it was then that Gerard—

She stopped suddenly when the thought of all this first rushed back upon her. Since her illness it seemed as if the past had been locked away in a cupboard with many partitions, where its several incidents lay, not forgotten, but unrecalled. One by one, at the touch of Chance, the various doors flew open, and some memory, sweet or painful, would leap forth from a seeming nowhere into the light.

She was out in the wood, on the windy March day, with Monk by her side, and all around her the black tree-trunks streaked the sullen sky. She realized that she was close to the spot where, on that Christmas Eve two years ago, she had sunk to the ground in the snow—the spot where Gerard had afterwards found her glove.

Why had Gerard fought that frantic duel? Otto had said that nobody fought duels but desperadoes. And certainly, as far as Holland was concerned, Otto must be accounted right.

Still, in this matter he had judged his brother harshly. Ursula believed that the duel had been fought in defence of the national flag, and she felt that, had she been a soldier, she would have done the same.

Not in this matter only had Otto wronged a nature he could not understand. Gerard, as their mother had said, was a sunbeam, genially playing from flower to flower. He was a firebrand newly lighted, that fizzes and crackles in its youth, before settling down to a steady glow. Now that he was away in Acheen his good qualities seemed all to stand out against the background of the home that had lost him. She had known him all her life; all during her long childhood, her long girlhood, he had been her playmate, her companion—more than that, the bright Phoebus of her modest horizon, her Prince—in his uniqueness—of Cavaliers. Everything around her, in the Manor-house, in the neighborhood, was connected with memories of joint pastimes and pranks. Ever since she could toddle she had been very fond of Gerard, with the tranquil affection of practised chums. But now he had fairly forgotten her. In his frequent letters to his mother—letters full of tenderness and rose-color—he never even sent a token of remembrance. Stop—there had been that message the Baroness had declined to give in the first letter after their common bereavement. Perhaps there had been more. Ursula did not think so, for the Dowager gradually communicated her darling’s epistles to every one, repeating and rereading them in scraps. Had she not immediately let slip the very message in question—“Gerard says he would have sold the place in any case, so where’s the difference?”

Ursula sighed. Yes, after all, Otto was right. It couldn’t be helped. Gerard’s letters never spoke of danger, but, through others, news had reached Horstwyk that the Jonker had, on several occasions, greatly distinguished himself. By-and-by he would come back, “rangÉ,” and marry—marry a little money, and then—

Then her task would be done.

Meditating thus, she reached the very spot which she had determined to avoid. A blackbird broke in, almost fiercely, upon her reverie, and she looked around. In an instant there rose up before her the meeting by the Manor-house on that Christmas morning, and again she heard Gerard’s voice saying, as he bent over an old brown glove, “I want you to let me keep this. It will be the most precious thing I shall ever possess.”

The whistling wind struck her hot cheeks; the great dog beside her leaped up, nose foremost, with vague, mute sympathy. She rushed away from the horrible place, tearing her crape in unmindful haste, hurrying to the open, the boundless heath, where the whole air was in a ferment of conflicting currents, that caught her and buffeted her, and flung her hither and thither amid a chorus of moans and sobbings, barks, laughter, and shrieks.

When at last she paused for breath, in a lull, she saw that she was not far from Klomp’s cottage. So she got under cover of the trees again, and directed her footsteps to the little tumble-down house. She had a weakness for Klomp. He was so signally “undeserving.”

By the door leaned Adeline, and at a glance each woman understood that the other had recognized her.

“Klomp, here’s the Baroness!” cried Mejuffrouw Skiff, retreating a little before the suddenness of an encounter she had hitherto vainly sought.

“Wish her Nobleness a very good day for me,” replied an uncertain voice from dingy depths unknown.

“Poor man, he’s asleep,” said Adeline, boldly. “Was it anything particular you wanted with him, Mevrouw?”

Ursula smiled. “No, indeed,” she said. “On no account would I disturb his well-earned rest.”

“Well-earned it is,” retorted Adeline, pertly. “His younger daughter’s ill, and he’s been sitting up with her all night.”

Ursula’s manner changed. “Mietje? I am sorry to hear that. Can I see her? What is the matter?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing much, I fancy. You needn’t know what, I suppose, as long as you send the regulation broth.”

Ursula turned away, almost eagerly. That she should meet this woman now! She had lost sight of her and her story, gladly, for years.

“I suppose you don’t remember me, madame,” said Adeline, acidly. She had noticed the quick movement of aversion.

“Oh yes, I remember you,” replied Ursula, standing still. “But certainly I did not expect to find you here.”

“Yet what is more natural, Mevrouw the Baroness van Helmont, than that I should come to have a look at my relations.”

“I did not know the Klomps were any relations of yours.”

“I did not mean the Klomps.”

The two women looked at each other.

“Well,” said Ursula, in measured tones, “I hope you are doing better than you were. Good-morning.”

But again Adeline stopped her. “I am not doing well at all. As your Nobleness so kindly takes an interest in my career, I should like to explain my position, if your Nobleness would deign to listen.”

Suddenly the dog, Monk, who had been suspiciously watching the frowzy stranger, broke into a fury of disparagement which no commands from his mistress could quell. Adeline was horribly frightened. With a very cowed manner she retreated behind the door, but she shrieked from that place of safety that the matter was one of the greatest importance.

Ursula, having compelled the growling dog’s obedience, with one firm hand on his collar, called to the poor soul to come forth again.

“Say your say,” she decreed, “and have done.”

“It’s only this,” whined Adeline, on the door-step: “I’m destitute, deserted with my child, not knowing where to turn, and I’m Gerard Helmont’s wife.”

She had calculated her foolish “coup;” she was aware that a wide gulf yawned between Ursula and possible denial from Gerard.

“So it’s I,” she added, quickly, “who am the Baroness van Helmont, though not of the Horst—you know why; and all I ask is a few hundred florins and to let me go in peace.”

“Do you mean to say,” queried Ursula, “that you claim to be Gerard van Helmont’s legal wife?”

“Yes; and it was you that wanted him to marry me, so, in part, the fault is yours,” responded Adeline, who enjoyed lies for the mere telling, even when there was nothing to be gained. “Therefore, give me a generous sum for Gerard’s child, and let me go. Why, everything ought to be his, the young Baron’s—all the wealth and magnificence that you’ve got hold of, nobody knows how.”

And Adeline began to cry real drops. Men cannot yet manufacture genuine diamonds. Women can.

But, notwithstanding her weeping, there was much spite, and even a little menace, in her tone.

“Down, Monk, down!” said Ursula. “I shall not ask you for further proof of your story, simply because I know it is not true. I wish it were. I am fully conscious that you have a claim to be what you say you are and are not. Could I help you to obtain its recognition I would do so; but otherwise I can do nothing for you. I have no money, and therefore can give you none. In a couple of years perhaps there will be more at my disposal, and then, if things remain unchanged, you may write to me, and I will do what I can for your boy. That is all. Now you had better go away from here. Have you understood me?”

“Give me twenty-five florins,” said Adeline.

Ursula drew the straining dog towards her, and passed down the narrow path. Half-way she hesitated.

“Oh, keep straight!” she burst out, pleadingly; “keep straight, for the child’s sake. I’ll send you the twenty-five florins, if you want them. Let me have your address in Drum, and I’ll try to find you decent work. Oh, be an honest girl, for the love of God!”

“Send me the twenty-five florins,” said Adeline.

Ursula crept back into the wood; her eyes were full of tears.

“Oh, Gerard, Gerard!” she said; “this is your work. God forgive you for deserting her. No pure-hearted woman can.”